Bubbles
by Elphaba01
Summary: It fills her with a feeling that resembles bubbles – nice, warm bubbles that busily float around your stomach until you feel as if those butterflies are about to come back again. But the butterflies don't come back. She wouldn't know what she'd do if they did. / One-Shot! JPLE's "Who, What, When, Where" Competition.


**Take two of the "Who, What, When, Where" competition by JPLE from HPFC! Heheh, first attempt was quite light-hearted, I guess, but this one's a lot more toned down. It's not gritty or anything though – just not a lot of actual **_**humour**_**-humour, if you know what I mean. lol**

**Prompts: **_**During detention, underwear, Filch's office, Sirius.**_

* * *

**Bubbles**

The first thing she notices is that it smells like a fish market. She scrunches up her nose before she even turns the chipped, mouldy knob, not especially in favour of the fragrance – she'd be brave enough to say that she'd prefer to take a painstakingly awful whiff of her Great Uncle Albert's vacuum cupboard, and that's saying something.

She gave an unintentional shiver at the memory, remembering her four-year-old self feeling rather adventurous and opening the Door That Shouldn't Be Opened only to find dusty bedsheets, hidden garage tools, a vacuum and a god-awful pang that smelled of garlic, unhygienic felines and old people.

Needless to say, she never dared to open the Door That Shouldn't Be Opened ever again, even though she's now perfectly capable to do so without getting told off, being the _responsible_ fifteen-year-old she is.

Holding her breath, she opens the fishy door – she giggles at her own pun – labelled _Room 234-00_, and is shocked to what she sees.

Long chain manacles hang from a wall, glinting with polish even in the murky, dark atmosphere, with only a single lamp oil to radiate warmth and light. Her spectacled eyes strains to adjust as she squints around desperately, waving her arms fervently for support, and as soon as she gains her bearings she's relieved that she hasn't embarrassed herself with her lack of –

'You alright?'

... awareness.

She turns sharply at a tall, wide-shouldered figure that leans on an unnecessarily bulky desk – funny, she hasn't noticed it before – letting out a surprised squeak. Pressing a hand on her chest, she wheezes out a nervous, _breathless _murmur of a laugh. 'I didn't see you there,' she says, as if she needs to correct herself. ''Cause it's, um, dark, and everything.'

She feels his questioning gaze, a little intimidated as she fiddles with her messy blonde bun. Some ringlets have let loose already but if she fixes it now it'd look stupid, and she's in detention and needs punishment of some kind so why is she suddenly obsessed with her hair? She's not usually obsessed with her hair.

Oh, but its nerves! It's the nerve of the boy sitting on the desk that's making her feel so oddly nervous, so nervous in fact that she's spluttering. 'Is that the, err – the only light that's – that's here, or –?'

'No,' he answers immediately, mumbling something quickly before a small beam of light is cast at the tip of a wand, _his _wand.

Why is she in Ravenclaw again?

'I forgot about that,' she says, glancing at her toes, her cherry blossom lips quirking up at her own expense for a couple of minutes when she realises, sharply craning her head back to the wizard on the desk.

He smirks, gray eyes sparking with something she hasn't seen on anyone else before and letting out a bark-like laugh. It fills her with a feeling that resembles bubbles – nice, warm bubbles that busily float around your stomach until you feel as if those butterflies are about to come back again.

But the butterflies don't come back, and it's just the bubbles.

'Hullo, Sirius,' she greets with that same squeak again, and she almost wants to jinx herself; she's not _that_ shy, she's not usually nervous – well, only at times when it's absolutely, necessarily needed – and she's not blushing and she most _definitely_ is not a squeaking mouse – she's supposed to be an eagle, isn't she?

So she coughs, mustering up what's left of her sense, and tries to act casual. 'So what are you here for?'

'I'm here because I frankly like spending my spare time here,' he says, dripping with sarcasm that she doesn't really appreciate. The bubbles pop. 'It's so warm and _cuddly_, did you know?'

'No, I didn't,' she says, somewhat wounded and deflated. She was only trying not to be a mouse, after all, so what's _his_ problem? Well, maybe he's having an off day, but still, that doesn't excuse his lack of manners.

He raises his eyebrows, surprised at her sudden change of tone as he shifts to completely seat himself on the desk. 'I'm not here for detention, if that's what you're asking,' he corrects, and it's now him who seems intimidated. 'I was about to do something before you came in.'

'And what were you planning to do?' She's amused and suspicious, perhaps even curious.

Sirius glances down at her uniform, and slightly relaxing for the absence of the prefects' badge. 'There are rumours that need to be confirmed.' He shivers. 'Horrible rumours concerning underwear.'

She snorts unattractively before she lets out immature bubbles of giggles burst out of her lips. 'Really? In _here_?'

She's laughing because in a room that smells worse than her Great Uncle Albert's vacuum cupboard, has lamp oil and polished manacles and chains hanging from the wall, and resembles something between a 16th century torturing chamber, an intimidating American classroom and a fish market, it potentially has underwear hidden in it.

Her sense of humour never has been especially great.

He looks both concerned and pleased at her laughter, since he's knitting his eyebrows and smiling at the same time. 'Pretty laced knickers, you know? Apparently XXX large in size – it's a wonder how he manages to slip them on every day.'

'Seems like Filch has been getting around,' she comments, and now it's both of them guffawing like idiots. It's her own little payback towards that bitter, grumpy man – all she did was accidentally jinx a Slytherin, but that was completely unintentional and really an over-exaggerated drama of an incident – and before she knows it, she's gushing out all of her frustrations concerning Filch. His smelly office, his grudge against wizards in general and his habit of befriending anti-social, nasty cats – it's spurting out of her mouth with such surprising ease that she's having to force back her surprise.

She's talking to _Sirius Black_, of all people – and not only that, but _he's _talking to Fifth Year's mad Ravenclaw. Unlike everyone else, he's acting as if she's just as sane as he is.

For a moment, she contemplates whether she should ask him – _Sirius, why are you talking to me? _– but then that'd be weird. It's not casual and far too much of a strange question to ask someone who's practically a stranger towards her. Perhaps on another day, but not now. Not when the bubbles are rising, floating leisurely around her stomach and making her heart flutter.

'Why do you care so much about Filch's knickers, anyway?' she asks instead, smiling at him, amused, as he hops off the desk and investigates the manacles. The chains slide through his palms when he fiddles around with them with his large hands, and when he realises she asked him a question, he quirks up an eyebrow. 'Filch's knickers,' she repeated. 'Why?'

'Ah.'

So he likes straight-forward questions.

'Just... curious,' he says off-handedly. 'Prongs wanted to know.'

'Prongs. He's James, isn't he? James Potter?' she says, just to make sure they're talking about the same person. When he casts her with a questioning, guarded glance – a look she has received _so many times _– she gushes out some sort of apology. 'Sorry. I mean, you call him that all the time, and stuff.'

'S'pose. It's sort of an inside joke,' he says, a twinkle in his eyes. He seems to love his friends more than he loves himself. 'They're all idiots, though.'

'But you love them anyway,' she blurts, and it seems so much more stupid than it does in her head. She forgets that people can't read her mind, but he likes straight-forward, and what's not straight-forward about that? But then again, who _asks _those kinds of questions?

_Some kind or Ravenclaw you are._

He blinks. 'What?'

She sighs, fiddling with her thumbs. 'Doesn't matter,' she grumbles awkwardly. 'It was stupid anyway.'

'Stupid?' he asks, but it comes out more as an unimpressed quote. His grey eyes meet hers and like with almost everything that he says, it has a glint of conviction. Determination. 'You come out with things that _sound_ stupid, but you say what's on your mind. And that's not bad.'

Her jaw slackens. Her mouth drops. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes, as hazel and warm as chocolate, brighten as they bulge. Her lips lift up into a smile as her bubbles rise out of her as laughter, coming out as a joyful song.

She wants to scream. She wants to jump around and dance on the spot. She wants all of Hogwarts to know that Sirius Black doesn't think she's mad or stupid. She forgets about the stench that's worse than Great Uncle Albert's vacuum cupboard, she forgets that Filch is supposed to open that door any second now, she forgets that the bubbles are overcome with butterflies that are so out of control, she just _forgets _because she's not _mad_!

'You're so weird, though,' Sirius laughs, and the insult doesn't pang for once – the eagerness in his voice oddly pleases her. It's an unofficial invitation for them to be friends, she thinks.

But then she the footsteps come. Slow and assured, accompanied with the small taps of a paw and a bored whistle. Almost immediately, she jumps off the desk and shoves Sirius towards a rather large black box she's only just noticed is there, opening the lid and gesturing for him to jump inside.

'Get in!' she hisses, smirking as she glances at the door. 'He'll find you.'

'He'll find _you_!'

'I'm _supposed_ to be here,' she reminds him, rolling her eyes and receiving a snort in return. She's relieved when he reluctantly steps inside, grumbling and moaning. '_Thank _you,' she says, sliding her glasses up her nose and giving him one last amused glance before softly closing the lid of the box.

The rustle of the door knob. Creak. Step. 'What're you doing?'

'Nothing, sir. Just curious.'


End file.
